And Any Courage Is a Fear
by Ljota Lokidottir
Summary: When Ljota Lokidottir leaves Asgard and her father behind, she finds herself stranded in Midgard with no friends, no plan, and nowhere to go, until she stumbles across a curious family and finds a kindred spirit among them. Primarily Marvel and Sherlock, with bits of Doctor Who, Supernatural, and Harry Potter thrown in. Credit goes to the owners of those franchises.
1. Wasting Breath, Wasting Space

**AN: Ljota is mine. Violet (whom you will meet later) belongs to Violet Verner (look her up here on , she's brilliant and has a few more stories involving one of both of our characters, including Fix You, which we co-wrote). Other members of the Family (which you will meet later on) belong to various of our mutual friends. Other than that, all credit to the creators and owners of the franchises off of which this is based.**

"Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild."  
— Stephen King

"Hey, Jotunn!"

I paused mid-step at the sound of Nari's voice. _Oh, joy. Here we go again._

"Why the hurry, Frosty?" Vali added, stepping up beside his brother. Somehow the child never grew tired of that insult.

I turned then, resigning myself to a repeat of _every single afternoon for as long as I could remember_. Except for that one time we went to Midgard, and — thank the Nornir — I could escape them for a brief spell. It wasn't that they got to me, with their unbelievably unimaginative taunts and their crude, empty threats; I just got tired of hearing the same things day after day. I almost wished there were a better bully around, just so it would at least be interesting.

"Afternoon, Vali, Nari," I said politely, furnishing myself with a superior smirk. I didn't _feel_ like being superior today. I just wanted to cut myself off from the world for a while. Maybe forever. The world wasn't really that great a place.

"Going to run off to your dear father again now?" I swear Nari had said the _exact_ same thing to me the previous day. He always seemed to forget that Loki was _his _father, too.

"He's a monster, you know. You are, too." Ah, Vali. So young. So thoroughly useless at being interesting. _As if your Aesir blood somehow cancels out the Frost Giant in you two?_

"So I have been informed. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to get past."

I pushed past Vali. Nari stuck out his leg to trip me, and the illusion — which, as always, he had mistaken for me — melted. I had gone around them, invisible, as I did every day. I am nearly convinced they were doing the whole thing for the sake of ritual more than for the sake of actually bullying me. Either that, or they really are as stupid as they look.

"He doesn't really love you, you know," Nari called after me. "He only mollycoddles you because he knows it's his fault your mother died."

_He — what? _Outwardly, I ignored him, as if it was just another of his foolish attempts to hurt me. But — although I hate to admit it, even now — this one had succeeded. My father never talked about the Midgardian he had loved. If anybody so much as came close to mentioning the subject, he grew cold and distant and wouldn't speak to anybody, sometimes for days. I told myself that he loved me, that he cared for me more than anything — but I couldn't help wondering if Nari was right. If I was nothing more to Loki than a means to self-redemption, atonement for my mother's death. I wondered what he would have done to me if she had lived.

I stopped halfway down the stairs to the dungeons, remembering the events that had led to this particular imprisonment.

* * *

Late afternoon on this side of Asgard. Squinting, I shielded my eyes against the sharp light that slanted off the innumerable turrets of the palace I would never consider my home. As I approached the main gate — I made a point of always coming in through the front door — the noise of another argument reached my ears. Thor was berating my father again; I wondered what the latter had gotten up to this time.

As it turned out, he hadn't actually done anything at all. Thor was holding out a somewhat battered copy of a Midgardian book on Norse Mythology, which looked rather amusingly incongruous in my uncle's hand. I recognized it as the book my father kept on his shelves. It had been there for as long as I could remember, and we took it out sometimes to scoff at the illustrations and characterizations.

Unfortunately, I also recognized the illustration on the page Thor was thrusting in front of my father's face. The Slaying of Baldur. _Oh, no. Not good._

"_Baldur_, Loki! It says right here you're going to kill him! Just for fun! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have our father lock you up right now!"

"Well, there is the bit where I _haven't actually done it_, brother dearest," my father pointed out wearily. "Are you really going to imprison me — again — just because some foolish Midgardian thought I was going to commit murder?"

Thor wouldn't be so easily swayed. "The Midgardians have been right about everything so far! Angrboda? Sif's hair? Sleipnir? They all came true!"

"So you would let me rot away in prison for eternity, in a self-righteous attempt to prevent the inevitable? What a kind and loving family I have. Ah, good afternoon, Ljota," he added, seeing me. "Just having a little brotherly chat here."

I raised my eyebrows. "So I see. Are they actually going to imprison you for a murder you haven't committed but are apparently destined to? Why would you kill Baldur, anyway?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Baldur's a bit of a bore, but certainly not worth killing."

"That's what I thought. Fairly preposterous, as ideas go, isn't it? Even by your standards."

Thor was glaring at both of us. "We shall see what Odin has to say of this," he declared, striding toward the throne room. My father and I exchanged glances (half-amused, half-worried), shrugged, and went after him.

Odin, of course, was of the same mind as Thor. "I cannot take chances," he said firmly. "My primary concern must be the safety of Asgard. I cannot permit such a threat to remain free."

I sighed and watched my father walk away from me in shackles.

* * *

In the dimly lit stairwell, I echoed that sigh and continued down. They had tried to keep me from visiting my father, the first few times he was imprisoned during my life. They had given up when I consistently spent all day and night at the top of the stairs in protest. I've been called stubborn and headstrong. I prefer the term _persistent_. Or _tenacious_. _Tenacious_ is a good word.

My father was sitting in his cell as always, reading a book. He's developed quite a library in that cell. He's in there so often it's almost a second home.

He looked up at the sound of my approach, shifting his hand to hold the book open on his lap. "I bid thee good afternoon, Lady Ljota," he joked. "How was your day?"

I wasn't exactly in the mood for jokes. Demigoddess of mischief I may be, but I am not immune to dark moods. "_Fine_," I snapped, sitting down with my back against the corner pillar of his cell.

He frowned. "Why do you get angry when I ask that?"

"Because," I grumbled. "Because it was _fine_ and that's it. If anything noteworthy had happened I would tell you. But it never does. Every day is just another day full of stupid. Another day of pointless classes and brainless asses." I didn't even bother smiling at the rhyme. "There's just no point in your asking, and I get tired of saying fine, day after day, to yet another inane and meaningless question." I leaned my head back against the pillar and closed my eyes, trying not to get too angry.

In retrospect, that little tirade probably answered his question quite well. Clearly my day had not been a good one.

"Hm. Bored?"

"Mm." I didn't bother saying more. He knew me well enough.

"It occurs to me," he said after a pause, "that our days while I am imprisoned are not so very different than those we pass while I am free. We continue to spend the vast majority of our waking hours discussing the idiocy of the wider world."

"The main difference," I pointed out without opening my eyes, "being that we cannot run about the palace wreaking havoc and mayhem whilst you are trapped in that box of yours."

"Perhaps not," he agreed. "But we can try." As he spoke, his voice shifted — it now sounded as though he were sitting right next to me. And when I opened my eyes, he was. His illusion-self, that is. He looked quite real, but I knew that if I touched him, he would dissolve.

"Oh yes, that would be such fun," I sighed sarcastically. "If I — or anyone — so much as _poked_ you, you'd be gone. What's the point?"

"It would be better than sitting in here all day. I can control the illusion over a great enough distance to run all about the palace. We can at least still plot together."

"It wouldn't be the same." I didn't tell him the real reason I didn't want to pull pranks with him today — that I was just generally angry and wasn't sure whether I could really trust him — but he knew something was wrong.

"What is it, Ljota?" he asked, letting the illusion melt away and looking at me through the glass once more.

I shrugged, not feeling like talking to him anymore. "Nothing."

"Ljota. Talk to me. What's happening?"

_Mollycoddling_. That word had stung. It kept playing over and over in my head. Was that really what my father was doing? "I —"

"Yes?" he prompted me, the frown deepening.

"I'm just tired of you!" I burst out suddenly. "I'm tired of you watching my every move! Alway trying to protect me, to keep me safe, but _I don't need it anymore_! I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself! Why can't I do anything without _you_? I'm _always_ with you, even when you're in prison! It's ridiculous!"

After a moment of shocked silence, my father pointed out quietly, "You're the one who comes to keep me company. I never asked that of you."

"Yes, _I_ came! Out of loyalty to you! Because I felt I should! If it weren't for you, I would be free — I could do anything I wanted! Anything! But no, I'm stuck here in the palace, always keeping safe, always tucked away behind closed doors, never doing anything worth remembering — because of you! These tricks, these jokes, they're all just distractions to keep me away from the real world, to keep me _safe_, and all because you still feel guilty about my mother!"

He paled visibly at that. We _never_ talked about my mother. When I was very young, he had told me — in a cold, distant voice — only that my mother was a Midgardian and that she had died. The rest, I had learned from the other children or from Thor. Even Sigyn had filled in a few details, but she didn't like to talk to me much.

As my father continued to sit perfectly still and silent, his face terrifyingly white, I felt a certain amount of remorse for what I had said. But I wasn't about to admit that, certainly not to _him_. Instead, I tilted my chin. _Tenaciously_.

"I'll prove it to you, then," I informed him. "I'll prove to you I can look after myself. And if you still doubt me after that, I have no reason to call you father anymore." Somewhat melodramatic, yes, but I was angry.

I snatched my book from the ground and stalked away and up the stairs. Back in our chambers, I huffed angrily at the air and lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling but not really seeing it.

I had never been so angry at my father before. We'd had our disagreements, of course — usually very violent ones that resulted in the destruction of several rooms — but it had always been the two of us against the world. We were all we had. Thor didn't hate us as much as he pretended, but he had no qualms about getting my father thrown in prison time after time, for minor or imagined offenses. Sigyn, my stepmother, resented my father, but dared not speak against Odin. Odin himself never paid me much mind, but as he was the one who kept imprisoning my father, I did rather despise him. The rest mostly either ignored me or taunted me.

And now I had rejected my father, too. Not that I regretted it, exactly — no matter how much we lied and deceived our way out of trouble, our policy had always been complete honesty with one another, and what I had said was the truth. And I would prove it to him. I would show him that I was no longer a child.

But the image of his face, pale and speechless at the gibe about my mother, kept hovering behind my eyelids. Perhaps I should not have said that, but his reaction made me think there must be at least some grain of truth behind it, and so perhaps my father really did view me as nothing more than penance for his crime.

And so my thoughts spun around each other in disorderly circles, confusing and dizzying me, until I fell asleep.


	2. Running Out of Heart

"_Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes."_

— Mahatma Gandhi

I continued to spend time in the dungeons after that day — whether out of habit, or simply because it was quiet and nobody else was allowed down, except the guards, who mostly ignored me. I sat in my usual place, but kept to my books and talked little. The bulk of my daily conversation with my father went about like this:

Him: "Afternoon, Ljota."

Me: "Hello."

Him: "Still hate me?"

Me: grunt of affirmation.

Him: "Sorry."

Me: grunt of acknowledgement.

Him: "All right."

And then I would clear my throat and make it quite clear that he should shut up so that I could focus. And he would shut up, because he didn't know what to say to me. That, at least, was good. Nothing he could have said would have meant anything. I was sadder and angrier than I could ever remember being, and he couldn't help me from behind glass walls.

One evening, unable to sleep, I started rifling through some old things of my father's. He didn't have that many _things_ — both his own personality and his lack of interpersonal relationship skills went a long way toward preventing that. But at the bottom of one drawer, I found something of interest.

It appeared to be a photograph, folded. I had seen some of the things during that one trip to Midgard I mentioned, and I remembered them well. I had been fascinated.

Curious, and — I confess — a little nervous, I carefully unfolded the photograph. And stopped.

It was a picture of a woman. A Midgardian. She was laughing, dark hair blowing across her face, one hand trying in vain to tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes — blue — were squinted against the sunlight hitting them. Her laughter drew deep lines in her face. Behind her I could make out the edges of trees.

I knew this must be my mother. I had never seen a picture before, but along with the vague resemblances to myself, there could be no other woman whose picture my father would keep so carefully like that. On the back of the picture, in handwriting that was not my father's, was written — _May 17th, Martha's Vineyard. With Loki and the unborn baby (day 58)_.

The baby. That would be me. I felt a sudden, irrational rush of guilt, realizing with a jolt that this vibrant, happy woman was dead because of me. I wondered what she had been like. I wondered what her job had been, who her friends had been, whether she ever fought with her father. I wondered whether I was anything like her — something I had never thought to wonder before.

I realized, then, that somebody could give me answers to these questions. Not my father; I wasn't about to go to him with questions about my mother. Not only would he turn pale and silent at the first mention of her, but my own pride would not permit me to ask him for anything. But there _was_ somebody else who could tell me about her. Tucking the photograph into a pocket, I stood.

I didn't often traverse the bridge to the Bifrost Gate — my father kept me in the city almost unfailingly, and was not on close terms with Heimdall, despite the fact that the two of them were brothers of sorts. I went on foot, rather than take a horse, for several reasons: first, the fewer people who knew where I was, the better (I didn't want news reaching my father); second, my pride; and third, I relished the long stretch of complete solitude and what felt like freedom. Freedom to do what, I wasn't sure. To die, maybe. Alone on the bridge with nothing to stop me from falling into the ocean far below, I felt thrillingly unprotected, excited by the realization that I had absolute power over my own life. There was nobody to catch me if I fell, no one to hold me back from the edge, no one to hurry me back to safety, and it felt wonderful.

Upon reaching the Gate, I had to strain my eyes against the dimness inside the orb — the day outside was bright, but little sunlight reached this place. Heimdall seemed to be expecting me, which was only natural.

"Hello, Daughter of Loki," he greeted me without turning from his post. I approached him.

"Hello, Heimdall. Shall I suppose you know why I am here?"

"I do not," he told me, which was surprising at the time. "I was looking elsewhere, and only saw you when you set foot on the bridge. Why have you come?"

"My mother," I said stiffly, since I wasn't keen to admit such a sentimental motive. "I want to know about her."

Heimdall looked at me curiously. "Your mother? Why the sudden interest?"

I unfolded the photograph and showed it to him. "This is her, isn't it?"

"Yes." Heimdall sighed. "I was watching your father closely for that year, and so I know a little about her." He paused, and I nodded for him to continues. "She was the perfect counterpart to your father — generous, forgiving, sympathetic — and quite clever as well."

"She sounds amazing," I murmured.

Heimdall nodded slightly. "The most amazing thing about her was that she wasn't afraid of him. She knew who he was, but she didn't care. She had a passion for people, and another for history. The Norse peoples were her particular focus, so she was very familiar with both your father's past and future."

"Future?" I interjected, confused. "How could she know his future?"

"Asgard does not exist in the same realm of Time as the others of the Nine Realms," he explained. "Our temporal relationship with the rest of the Yggdrasil is complex and varies depending on the relative cosmic positions of the Realms. The Bifrost also directs things according to its own will, within available parameters."

"Will? The Bifrost is conscious?"

"In a sense. It's very old and powerful and complex. I believe it does have some control over where and when it sends people, though I'm sure the Nornir have something to do with it as well."

"Oh." I pondered this. "I never realized that."

"Not many do," Heimdall agreed. "It's not a question most would think to ask."

I nodded, understanding. "So if I went to Midgard now, I would have no idea where I would end up?"

"There are a number of possibilities, but only within the specified areas of Time open to us at this point in our celestial orbit. You could end up in any one of a set group of time points."

"Could I meet my mother?" For some reason, I very much wanted to meet her, even if I couldn't tell her who I was.

"Possibly, although it's unlikely that the Bifrost would allow it. It would have potential for so many paradoxes that could be very destructive."

"Ah." I was silent for a moment, then said without thinking, "How did they meet?" I wouldn't have asked it if I had given it a moment's thought. That kind of question was not the sort of thing a daughter of Loki should be wondering about. Far too sentimental.

Heimdall gave me an odd look, but answered anyway.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky over Boston Commons, casting a pleasant yellow light on the trees and grass. Patches of flowers were blooming, a pair of ducks paddled in the pond, and a statue glinted in the early-afternoon light — all very picturesque. But the beauty of his surroundings seemed lost on the man on the bench, head lowered, elbows on his knees as he stared despondently — or was it furiously? — at the ground. He had found a relatively quiet corner of the park and set himself to thinking. So far, nobody had bothered him. He clenched his jaw and kept staring.

A slight breeze lifted, teasing wispy locks of hair out of the woman's ponytail. She brushed them aside impatiently and glanced around. She had taken the long way to the bus, deciding to take the time and enjoy the beautiful day. Rearranging the stack of books under her arms, she breathed in deeply, happy to be alive. A bird passed overhead and she paused to watch it until it flew out of sight. As her eyes returned to Earth, they took note of a man sitting alone, looking generally sad.

Something about him caught her eye — the slope of his shoulders, the angles of his profile, the stance of his feet, she didn't know. But she recognized him.

"Sir?" He didn't look up at the voice. Even if the speaker was addressing him, which was unlikely, there was no reason for him to interact with these Midgardians. Presumably this one would have the sense to leave well enough alone.

Apparently, he presumed wrong. "Sir?" the voice repeated — feminine, but not timid. That was something, at least. He _hated_ timid people.

Sighing, he deigned to raise his head a little and look up. The mortal woman standing before him was of medium height, with dark hair and light blue eyes, dressed professionally but nondescriptly: all told, nothing particularly interesting. But her expression held an intense combination of curiosity and determination that intrigued him.

"Loki?" She paused, hardly able to believe it. "It _is _you, isn't it? I mean, the new hair and wardrobe might be enough to deflect most people's attention — along with the noted lack of killing people, of course — but I've spent _months_ studying you. A Norse god come to life, it was like a dream come true! Well, apart from the bit where you destroyed Manhattan, but the point is, I _know_ you!"

Well, that was certainly a surprise. On the off-chance that anybody did recognize him, Loki had been planning to depend on their fear to keep his identity a secret, but this woman simply didn't seem to be afraid. That was strange indeed. Even Odin feared him, Frigga certainly had, before she — well, in any case, he was used to being feared, and this woman broke the thus-far-unbroken pattern. That worried him.

Seeing his confusion, the woman smiled, shifted her books to her left arm, and stuck out a hand to shake. "Sorry. My name's Aurora Blumstein. I've been studying you."

Slowly, not knowing what else to do, Loki stretched out his own hand and shook. Aurora grinned wider and, to his bemusement, sat next to him on the bench.

"I was on my way to do some research at the office, but I seem to have stumbled across a much better resource completely by accident. I mean, this is a grand coincidence." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Do you suppose the Nornir meant for this to happen?" He could hear the laughter in her voice.

"It is possible," he admitted, "but not likely, unless you are to have some profound effect upon my existence."

"Or you on mine," Aurora pointed out. "Seriously, you're not still wallowing in that whole 'You are all of you beneath me' nonsense, are you? I expected better of you, Loki dear."

_Loki dear_? For once, the God of Lies was at a loss for words. In the name of the Aesir, the Vanir, and the Yggdrasil, what did this mad Midgardian think she was doing? He had seen many things, but he had never before met anyone daft enough to brazenly walk up and try to befriend him. She had heart, that was certain. Possibly not much of a head, though.

"I've always been interested in Norse mythology, see," Aurora continued excitedly, "it's my heritage — all my ancestry's Germanic, so I've always wanted to know all about my ancestors and their beliefs, that's why I became a historian. Of course, I was so excited when I saw Thor on the news — I couldn't believe it, one of my old legends alive and breathing and saving the world as if it happened every day! And then you came along and I thought I must be living in one of my mythology books, it was so surreal! So I set myself to studying the two of you, trying to find out what you were _really_ like, and I've been working on you for months, and then I find you here! I mean, Thor would probably be more talkative, but you're the next best thing! This is amazing!"

Loki's eyebrows went, if possible, even higher. "That's . . . not what people usually say," he managed after a pause. Aurora laughed lightly.

"I know," she said. "But I'm not 'people usually.'"


	3. A Hundred Minds

"_Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being."_

— Albert Camus

Heimdall's story occupied the greater part of my thoughts for several days. I kept looking at the old picture of my mother, trying to imagine this woman finding my father, understanding him, helping him as no one else could have. I tried to imagine my father opening up to her, grudgingly honest, reluctantly happy. I wondered what would have happened to him if she hadn't found him, if that unheeding bird hadn't flown ahead and drawn her gaze to him, or if she had decided to walk the short route as usual. I wondered how many tiny coincidences had led to their meeting, and how many huge impacts that meeting had.

Like me, for example. Was I just a vastly unlikely product of chance? The odds against my birth were huge — did that make me special or just random? Did my birth mean anything? If it did, I thought cynically, it surely wasn't to sit safely in Asgard when there were eight other Realms to explore within the Yggdrasil alone.

There were two possibilities, I decided. One, my life was fated and held some importance in the universe, and my father's selfish repentance was beneath me. Second, my life had no innate meaning; my father had tried to give it meaning, but that meaning was for him and not for me; and I had to make meaning for myself. Either way, I would achieve nothing by staying safe.

Even if I couldn't meet my mother — which, on second thought, did seem like a remarkably risky idea — I could at least pay a visit to her world. Possibly I could even discover where she had lived, and walk in her literal footsteps for a little while. I knew enough about Midgardian culture to get by — after his first unfortunate experience with Midgardians, my Uncle Thor had helped establish a cultural awareness class made mandatory for all children on Asgard. As a hybrid of two races, neither of them Aesir, that was the only class that had ever interested me. The rest were asinine, completely dull, but that one seemed at least to have a purpose.

I wasn't forgetting that I was also half-Jotunn, but I knew better than to expect any kind of welcome from that side of the family. No, it would have to be Midgard.

And I _would_ go. I promised myself that I wouldn't turn back out of fear, obedience, or over-practicality. I would make this journey. I would prove to my father, and to everyone, that I was capable of looking after myself. Nothing, I vowed silently, would stop me from doing this.

There was planning involved, of course. I would go, but I wouldn't go unprepared. I spent hours every day preparing a backstory, a character to play. This part would be easy. I spent practically my whole life pretending; one more lie wasn't any stretch. Besides, I only had to change a few facts in order to make my story seem quite believable to a Midgardian. Names, Realms of origin, number of murders committed, that sort of thing.

Money would be easy to obtain with my illusions. And with money, I could have lodging, food, clothes, and anything else I wanted. It wasn't necessary to pack anything except a few small weapons and my wit.

I visited my father before I left, and gave him a perfunctory notice. "I am going to Midgard," I said simply. "You already know why. I will return at the end of two years. Do not expect me before then. Do not look for me."

* * *

This time, I took a horse for the ride across the bridge. I wanted to move quickly, now that I was going; I couldn't allow myself time to get caught or change my mind.

Heimdall watched me ride up. "Greetings once more, Daughter of Loki," he said. "You plan to leave."

"You have been watching me," I noted. "Yes, I am going."

"You have been watching me," I noted. "Yes, I am going."

"You seem to forget that you need my cooperation in order to pass."

"To the best of my knowledge, Odin has not forbidden me to leave. Has he?" I asked, suddenly worried.

Heimdall shook his head slowly. "He has not. But he will be angry if I let you go. So will your father."

I shrugged. "My father is in prison, and as long as you do not break your oaths, Odin can do nothing to you. Please, allow me to go."

He nodded warily. "You speak reason. Yet I would still counsel you not to make such a decision as this in the haste of rage. Its consequences could be more severe than you think." He seemed to be trying to warn me of something, but I could not tell what, so I put it down to nervous fancy.

"What haste? I have been planning this for weeks. If that is not enough time, I would rather be hasty than reasonable."

Heimdall sighed. "I cannot in good conscience allow you to do this," he insisted. I knew he meant well, but I wasn't about to back down.

"Surely you are aware that if you do not let me through, I will fimd and use other — and more dangerous — paths to get away from Asgard.

Clearly he knew enough about me to realize that there was no point in trying to change my mind anymore. He turned silently and walked up the small pedestal in the middle of the orb. Looking at me once more, he took his sword in his hands and held it ready to activate the Bifrost.

"I'm sorry," he said, and stabbed downward. He looked sad.

I was about to ask what he was apologizing for, but before I had a chance, I felt myself ripped from Asgard itself and hurled through a dizzying stream of rainbow energy, on my way to freedom.

* * *

_Loki stood and watched in silence as his daughter turned her back and walked away from him. Unable to say anything, unable to even move — this was his worst fear realized, _this _was the nightmare that had haunted him for nigh on a century now, ever since Aurora. He couldn't so much as think beyond the horror of the moment. This was the end. Everyone and everything was lost to him now. His life had just been dashed to pieces by his own daughter. Not that he blamed her. It was his fault. It was his fault that she had even been born. Her mother was his fault, too. Everything was his fault. He had given her pride, and of course that pride had turned against him in the end, like everything else._

_He hadn't any idea how long he stood there, but at length he heard footsteps approaching. Thor's footsteps. Angry. He forced himself to look up in his brother's accusing eyes._

"_She's gone."_

_Loki nodded numbly. "She told me."_

_That seemed to surprise Thor. "She did? Why didn't you stop her? Why didn't you talk to her?"_

"_As if I could." His laugh was hollow. "She is my daughter, Thor. She is so much like me. Too much like me, in the end. There was nothing I could have done. You know she is stubborn. Once she had made her decision, I couldn't possibly have changed her mind —"_

"_YOU COULD HAVE TRIED!" Thor bellowed, hitting the glass wall of the cell with such violence that Loki froze mid-sentence, stunned. He stared, his tongue suddenly dead in his mouth as he realized that, this time, nothing he could say would ever fix this. This was his wrong, and it was a wrong he could not right._

_Thor watched his brother. He saw Loki's walls drop for the first time since they were children. The raw pain in the other's eyes staggered him. If he had only known —_

_He sighed. "I had hoped this would turn out differently. That year on Midgard changed you, brother, more than you care to admit. I thought Ljota might be a kind of anchor for you, I thought that caring for her might help you. I only hoped you could be my brother again. But now Ljota has gone wrong the same way you did, morphed into a younger version of her father, and there is —"_

"Do not say that_," Loki hissed. "Do not confuse her with me, and do not make this out to be her fault. What I am is no fault of my daughter's."_

"_I know." Thor sighed again, heavily. "I am sorry. But Ljota is out on Midgard now, and she must be stopped before she — follows too closely in your footsteps. Odin will put out a search, I'm sure."_

"_No!" Loki interrupted sharply. "Even if Odin does try to find her, which is nowhere near a certainty, it will only be to bring her back in chains. He will lock her up as he has done to me so many times. And believe me when I tell you that being imprisoned does little to cure one's rage."_

"_Then what —"_

"_I will find her myself," Loki declared. Thor looked incredulous._

"_And how do you plan on doing that? You're locked up in here, and Odin is well aware of your little tricks — it would be impossible to fool him now, even if you convinced me to get you out of there."_

"_Thor, she is my daughter. I must do this, if it is the only thing I can ever do."_

_Thor knew his family well enough to recognize that Loki would not be swayed. "All right. But not yet. You must wait a while, until Odin's search has tried and failed to find her."_

"_Which will not take long, you know. It's not as if they actually care for her. Soon she will be forgotten."_

_Loki was right, of course, but Thor wasn't going to tell him that. Not now. "Do not say such things. You do not know their minds."_

"_I know their kind well enough, though. If any one of them cares, they do a remarkable job of hiding it." He paused, then continued. "Fine. Since I do need your help to get out of this accursed place, I will wait. But once they have given up on her, I will spare nothing. You know me well enough, then know that I will be neither patient nor merciful in my search."_

_Thor nodded. "I know."_


	4. Reaching for Memories

**A/N: This chapter includes the introduction of the Family. All Family members are actually the roleplay characters of my online friends, in our roleplay family. They have for the most part approved their characterization, although Brill says she's not crazy enough and David wants me to expand his part.**

"_Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment." _

― Rita Mae Brown

The Bifrost flung me out, and I rolled for some distance on a hard surface that felt rough under the side of my face. Groaning, I pushed myself off the ground, aching already and covered with dirt. I coughed slightly, but stopped because it hurt my ribs. I had probably bruised them.

Looking up, I saw that I was lying on a vast patch of hard black ground — the stuff Midgardians use for their roads, I remembered, though I couldn't think of its name. There was a grey sort of shack approximately behind me, and to my left I could see a small road separated from me by a fence. Beyond that was a second fence, followed by a much larger road. Judging by the light, it was early morning. The skies were clouded so thickly that I couldn't see the sun.

As I watched, a car sped past on the larger of the roads. I blinked, unused to the speed with which the machines moved. Standing up as quickly as I could given the bruises already forming all over my left side, I wove a quick invisibility shield around me. Not being entirely certain what year it was, I didn't want to be seen until I had discovered what clothes I could appropriately wear.

Walking parallel to the road, I wrinkled my nose against the various stenches of humanity. I wondered how they could live in this air. Then again, I thought, there were plenty of trees — surely this was far from the worst place on Earth. In fact, I distinctly remembered worse places from my brief visit as a child, though I couldn't recall what city that had been. Probably not Boston or New York, since the former was where he had met my mother, and the latter was where he had attempted world domination.

A road sign was eventually kind enough to inform me that I was in a city called Seattle. That didn't mean anything to me, so I kept going. A light rain started, but I didn't seek out shelter. The rain granted me solitude and anonymity, both of which were favorites of mine.

After a time, though, I began to worry that staying out in rain like this would attract attention. I should probably seek shelter somewhere, since that was what a normal Midgardian would do, and I was pretending to be a Midgardian. Not a Jotunn.

I found a bus, paid the driver with an illusion of money, and kept on until it mentioned something about a library. At that point I got off, because a library seemed like as good a place as any — and better than most — to start my life on Midgard. In a library, I could find out anything I needed to know about this place and time, and it would be quiet. Besides, I liked books. Books, in my experience, were some of the best company in the world. Certainly much better than people.

The irregular glass building in front of me bore no resemblance to the libraries of Asgard, but when I entered, I let out a breath in relief at the sight of countless books. The doors shut behind me, and I took a moment to relish the sudden quiet of this haven of learning.

Some time later, I made my way to an empty table, laden with an assortment of history books, newspapers, and novels. I cracked open a book about the First World War and settled in to educated myself, anticipating long hours of peaceful, uninterrupted reading.

It will probably not surprise you that things did not go as I expected. I was only fourteen pages into the book when someone spoke from the other side of the table.

"You don't belong here." It was the voice of a young woman, a different accent from most of the people here. Not American, then. I tried to place the accent, but I could never quite keep them straight. Australian? English?

I looked up into a pair of unflinching eyes that were staring at me quite unsettlingly. Across from me was a woman of around twenty Earth years, with curly dark hair and blue-green eyes not dissimilar to mine. She sat stiffly in a dark coat, buttoned even though it was quite warm within the library. I felt uncomfortably as though she knew everything about me, although I had not spoken so much as a word to her.

"I did not hear you approach," I said cautiously. Not many people could sneak up on me.

She didn't reply, so I tried again. "You are right, of course, I am travelling. As are you, I presume." This was a safe assumption given the accent.

She shook her head impatiently. "Well, _obviously_ I'm from London, but that's not what I mean. You're alien."

I frowned. "Alien?" I repeated, confused.

"Yes. Extraterrestrial, off-worlder, do you even speak English?"

I blinked, getting defensive. "Clearly I do. But why would you think me an alien?"

She scoffed. "I know the signs. Trust me. You're also currently homeless, with nowhere to go and no plans for what to do or where to stay. The best you've managed so far is a pile of books to learn about our culture. Won't get you very far. I know just where to take you, though, come with me." She stood abruptly, hands in coat pockets, and began to stride away, obviously expecting me to follow. I called after her.

"I have no idea who you are! Why should I go _anywhere at all_ with you? I do not even know your name!"

She turned on her heel and stood looking at me. "The name is Violet Verner," she informed me. "Yours?"

"I — Leah," I offered on a whim. I remembered the name from that one religious book — what was it? The Bible? — that I'd read some years ago, and decided that it was alike enough to me real name that it would be easy to get used to.

Violet gave me another piercing look. "No it's not," she replied offhandedly, "but it'll do. Now come _on_."

* * *

A few minutes of walking and one taxi ride later ("I don't like buses," Violet explained, "too many _people_" — she spat out the word _people _as if merely saying it revolted her), I stood in front of what appeared to be an empty field surrounded by trees. I was confused. Violet had said she was taking me to her family. I had assumed that involved a house of some variety.

When I turned to ask Violet what the meaning of this was, she was holding out a small card of stiff paper impatiently. Giving her a confused frown, I took it, and read:

_10101 Wenton Issaquah Road Southeast_

_Issaquah, Washington, U.S.A._

I looked up to ask, again, what all this was about, but stopped before the words reached my tongue. Where there had been nothing but grass and shrubbery, there was now a magnificent castle, like something out of the Midgardians' Arthurian legends. I stared. Violet grinned.

"Welcome to the Family," she said, leading me forward across a deep moat. "It's a strange place. Which means you'll fit right in, of course."

I thought about responding to the gibe, but it was mild and not meant maliciously, so I chose to ignore it. Shaking off my surprise — I was no stranger to illusion, after all — I straightened and strode up to the door. Violet matched my pace and opened the door as we reached it.

"Auntie Sherlin!" she called into the castle, her voice echoing. "Everyone! I've found another one!"

"Another _what_?" I demanded, somewhat indignant.

"Another misfit. This family is composed entirely of people with extraordinary pasts who have nowhere else to stay. You could call it a boarding house for the abnorm — ah, good to see you, Auntie Sherlin."

A small woman sporting light brown hair and an enormous striped scarf had just emerged from the castle and enveloped Violet in a hug. The latter seemed rather awkward as she hugged back stiffly, but her smile was genuine.

"I've only been gone a day, Auntie," she pointed out wryly. The other woman — Sherlin? — conceded the point.

"You know me. I worry about you, running off through time and space on your own . . . oh, who's this?" she interrupted herself, apparently noticing me for the first time. Absently, she rearranged glasses over her hazel eyes.

"This is —" Violet paused and glanced at me, "this is Leah. She hasn't told me who she is, but I know enough to know she belongs with the Family."

Sherlin looked me over. "Leah? That's a beautiful name," she told me, and for a moment I felt guilty for deceiving her. "Well, come in, I can't leave you standing on the doorstep all day, can I?" She stepped back from the doorway, and I followed Violet into an entrance hall of immense proportions. I thought irrationally of the Midgardian books I had so loved when I was younger, Harry Potter, and the magical castle school.

"Is this Hogwarts?" I blurted out, then immediately berated myself. That was stupid. Hogwarts was a fiction. _Great first impression, Lokidottir, really._

Sherlin just laughed pleasantly. "No, although I can understand the confusion. I did model much of the castle's layout after Hogwarts. I studied there," she added, seeing my look of confusion.

"You . . . you _studied _at a _fictional school of magic_," I repeated, disbelieving. Perhaps this woman was mad. Instinctively, I reached for my own magic, prepared to defend myself if she tried anything.

Violet, as was her habit, noticed my expression. "Get used to it," she said brusquely. "I told you this place was full of misfits. We come from all different realities. It's confusing at first, but I'm sure you'll become accustomed before long."

Sherlin smiled (she did that a lot). "Well, I'll call the others down so you can meet us all properly," she informed me. The she drew a polished wooden stick from an inner pocket (a wand? Really?), and pointed it at her throat. With a muttered "_Sonorus_," her voice was suddenly magnified so that it could surely be heard from all corners of the castle. "Children," she called, "Come meet your new sister!"

New sister? Well, that was unexpected. Apparently this Sherlin character needed a total of two minutes and Violet's approval to accept me as part of her family.

Before my thoughts could go any further, people started appearing in the room. Some of them came trotting downstairs like normal humans, but quite a few literally _materialized_ in the entrance hall. Curious, they started to converge on me, full of questions, until Sherlin herded them away.

"Now, now," she said, "give the poor girl room to breathe. Is everyone here? Good, I'll start. I'm Sherlin, the adoptive mother of most of this crazy bunch, biological mother of a few, aunt of some, and sister of a couple. You can call me Sherlin or Auntie Sherlin or Mum or Mother or Mommy or any variation thereupon. I already mentioned I'm a witch," she added, grinning. I returned the grin sheepishly. "Er — Brill, you next," she decided.

A girl — one of the ones who had seemed to appear magically — spoke up. "What, because I'm the most insane and it's best to get me out of the way first?" She didn't wait for an answer, and plowed on. "I'm Brill. Demon, madwoman, and generally awesome person. I have hair," she added.

I nodded dubiously. "Yes, you do," I agreed.

Without any prompting from Sherlin, a blonde girl introduced herself next. "I'm Olivia. Or Livvy or Liv. Fallen angel. I try to keep you all from dying."

"Tyler," said one of the few boys in the group. "Wizard, Hogwarts-educated like Mum, and somewhat more sane than Brill. Or at least I like to think so." He grinned. I smiled back.

"And I'm Tyler's twin and equal in awesomeness, Emma," added another girl with dirty-blonde hair. "I'm a demon, too." Whatever else could be said about this "family," it certainly didn't seem boring.

The introductions continued:

Karla was a girl with curly dark hair to rival Violet's, although it was much shorter. "Beware: will endlessly correct your grammar," she told me.

Kayli was a siren — "but I'm not so into the whole seduce-and-kill routine," she assured me. She wore a very elaborate flower crown.

Zea was a cousin of relatively small stature with dark hair and eyes (though the latter had a mildly maniacal glint that made me slightly nervous). She said she could cause hallucinations.

David, a blond, introduced himself briefly, then went upstairs to watch Star Trek.

Clara was moderately tall, with mousy brown hair. The others insisted she was an accomplished poet, but Clara refuted all such claims with remarkable modesty.

Madi had long, light-brown hair and glasses, and seemed to be good friends — or siblings, rather — with Tyler and Emma.

Sofia ("Don't spell it with a 'ph,'" she warned me) had wavy brown hair and smelled of baking. She offered me a cupcake, but I declined. She said she was adopted, but avoided my gaze and refused to answer when I asked about her parentage. I let it slide. After all, I was none too keen to admit who my father was, either.

Shelby had blondish hair dyed lavender at the tips. She ate the cupcake when I refused, and told me through a mouthful that she could do some magic, but that I should stay out of the way in case she accidentally caused an explosion.

Bing was younger than the rest, and stood shyly in the back, cuddling with a ridiculously fluffy cat. She said she was herself part cat (in fact, she had cat ears the same brown as her hair, and vaguely cat-like eyes), and I wondered briefly how that was possible — but then, I had an eight-legged horse for a brother. I couldn't really question it.

Sakura, a young girl with long black pigtails and a shocking overabundance of pink clothing, walked over and bowed. "こんにちは、" she said. I stared at her blankly. "Oh, sorry. I forget not everybody knows Japanese. I'll start again. Hello, I'm Sakura." She shook my hand, smiling brightly. She then informed me that she was a clone of someone called the Doctor.

Susie ("You can call me Auntie Susie, 'course, dear") was a woman around Sherlin's age who wandered in covered in mud and then wandered out a few minutes later.

Caroline pulled her nose out of a book long enough to smile and say hi, then went back to reading.

Co, a blonde, gave me a warm — if slightly affectatious — smile, though the glance she cast at my choice of clothing was rather disapproving.

Sarah was also reading, and gave me a slightly nervous smile from behind a curtain of dark brown hair.

Ravenna, hair shockingly blue, bounded in and hugged me before Sherlin could stop her. I managed an awkward hug back without too much hesitation, I think.

Joanna was a tall girl with dark hair who told me she was the daughter of Tony Stark, which had me baffled for a moment until I remembered who that was. I kept quiet, though, as yet unwilling to trust these people with my true identity.

"And who are you?" Sofia asked, looking me over curiously.

I paused. "I'm Leah," I said slowly. "I am . . . from Asgard." That shouldn't be too incriminating, I thought. That much was safe to tell.

Once the introductions were over, Sherlin said, "We'll go and get your room fixed up," and went upstairs with Violet following close behind. This seemed to be a usual occurrence in the Family, because no one else spared them so much as a glance.

"Who's up for a Supernatural marathon?" Madi asked. Liv shook her head.

"Not in the mood to watch Sam and Dean get beat up at every opportunity. Sherlock?

"Nah." Karla shot that idea down. "Much less fun without Violet's ceaseless commentary." There were a few nods of agreement, and only then did I realize that Violet hadn't told me who she was, really. I wondered.

"How about Doctor Who?" suggested Shelby. This suggestion was met with enthusiasm, but I was just getting more confused by the second.

"Doctor what?" I asked. "What are you talking about?"

"It's a TV show," Emma told me. "You do know what that is, don't you?"

I nodded. "I've heard of them."

"Well," Brill butted in enthusiastically, "let's go! GERONIMOOOOO!" she screamed, running across the hall with her arms spread out like wings and a fiercely heroic expression. I looked after her in bewilderment.

"ALLONS-Y!" Zea added, following Brill in a zig-zag. Tyler laughed at my expression.

"Welcome to the insanity," he said, and — unable to think of anything better to do — I followed him and the others across the hall.


End file.
